The Trials of Nikki Hill

by Christopher Darden; Dick Lochte

  “So do it,” Nikki said.

  “The old man’s practically retired these days,” Sue said. “Spends more time out of the office than in. Usually, Walter Park has to beg him to take on a client. This time Fallon demanded that Walter let him take on Deschamps pro bono. Must be a friend of the family, something like that.”

  Nikki hoped that wasn’t the case. “What about paperwork?” she asked.

  “In Fallon’s office, under lock and key,” Sue said. “Impossible to get at, especially since he’s got a witch of an assistant who watches over him like a mother hen. But,” she grinned triumphantly, “even a hen has to waddle away from the nest to eat. So...”

  She reached down for her purse. From it she withdrew a short stack of papers that she handed across the table. They were photocopies of pages from Fallon’s appointment book.

  “I don’t know if it’ll help,” Sue said. “I don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

  “As I said on the phone,” Nikki replied, greedily scanning the pages, “it’s nothing that’ll impact on your firm in any way.” She hoped that was the truth.

  “I wouldn’t mind if it impacted on Fallon,” Sue said, taking a sip of tea.

  Joe Walden was on his way out of the office when Nikki returned. “I’m headed for a late lunch with the mayor,” he told her. “I don’t suppose there’s anything new on the Gray case I could serve him for dessert?”

  She hesitated, thinking of the xeroxes in her briefcase. But she had no idea what, if anything, they might divulge. She shook her head.

  He frowned. “Those Homicide clowns are dragging their feet, I know it. When was the last time you checked with them?”

  “I called about an hour ago,” she said. “They were in the field. I left word.”

  “Do better than that,” he said. “Their investigation is running like a dry creek. Get their cellular numbers and bug the hell out of ’em. Ride ’em hard. If they give you any trouble, come to me and I’ll start kicking ass big time.”

  Right. Like she was really going to come to her boss and tell him she was incapable of doing her job. She watched him bounce off a desk as he rushed to the elevators. He was just about running on empty. Not enough sleep. Too much on his mind. It had not been the right moment to explain that neither Goodman nor Morales carried a cellular phone. As Carlos had explained, “They tell us we gotta have a name tag for crime scenes. Fifty bucks, but I buy the fucking name tag. They tell us we gotta buy a beeper. Okay, beep beep. I do that. Then they suggest we carry a phone. Well, screw the suggestion. They want this hombre to fork out the money for a goddamn phone, they gonna have to put it in writing.”

  Before going to her office, she detoured to the reception area, slid the magnet next to her name from “out” to “in,” and picked up her messages—eight pink phone slips. Four were party invitations from people she didn’t know. A literary agent she’d never heard of wanted to speak with her about an autobiography. Two journalists wanted to interview her. A local ad agency wondered if she did product endorsements.

  ”Here’s another,” said the receptionist, a young black woman who evidently spent most of her free time working on her perfect oxblood nails. “Just came in. Collect call, from Folsom Prison.”

  Nikki added that pink memo to the others.

  “The, uh, party said he’d call back,” the receptionist told her.

  “Yeah,” Nikki said. “He always does.”

  In her office, she trash-canned the pink memos and spread out the photocopied sheets carefully on her desktop. Sue had apparently been right: judging by the few notations on his calendar, Fallon had not been very active. She easily found the date and time he’d set for his first appointment with Des-champs at the Bauchet Street lockup. The pages for the preceding days had been mainly blank, except for a smattering of incoming calls. On the day before his lockup visit, Fallon had heard from two people—an L. Langham and a J. Doyle.

  There had been two more “J. Doyle” calls.

  Nikki looked at the phone directories resting in her bookcase. How many J. Doyles can there be in Southern California? she wondered, as she dragged the thick volumes back to her desk.

  There were nineteen in just the greater L.A. area. J. Doyle might be from Santa Monica or Pasadena or—

  Her phone rang.

  The receiver was halfway to her ear when she remembered Mace Durant’s promise to call again. “This is Nikki Hill,” she said warily.

  “This is the lucky man gonna have dinner with Nikki Hill tonight,” Virgil Sykes said, “or know the reason why.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He was silent for a beat, then said, “Beg pardon?”

  “I said ‘okay.’ Dinner tonight sounds fine.”

  “Good,” he said, apparently thrown off balance by her quick acceptance. “Good,” he repeated. “Excellent, in fact. Pick you up at the office...?”

  “My place,” she said. “It’s—”

  “Don’t make it too easy,” he said. “I’m a detective. I’ll find out where you live. Eight o’clock okay?”

  “Uh huh,” she said, wondering what she was getting herself into.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  See the mark there,” the elderly jeweler instructed Goodman, holding out the ring that Jamal Deschamps had taken from Madeleine Gray’s corpse.

  The two detectives and the jeweler were in the back room of the latter’s unpretentious shop on Fairfax Avenue. Goodman, squinting, saw only a smooth double-tiered inner band of what the jeweler had called an unusual design—a combination of platinum and fourteen-karat gold, with a three-carat blue diamond in a prong setting. Maybe there was one little speck of something on the band, the detective thought. He squinted. “Better lend me your loupe, Alphonse. With my eyes, I can barely make out the ring.”

  “Wait’ll you’re my age, Eddie,” the jeweler said, searching his bench for a magnifying glass. “Then you’ll really have something to grouse about.”

  “How old are you, Alphonse?” Morales asked, tearing himself away from an Erte sculpture of an obviously female sprite.

  “Eighty-eight, my last birthday,” Alphonse replied proudly.

  “Oh, man,” Morales said, “that may be too much life for me.”

  “Beats the alternative,” Alphonse said.

  Did it? Goodman wasn’t sure, the way things were going. He held the magnifying glass. Yes, there was something on the ring’s surface. “What am I looking at, Alphonse?”

  “The signature of the artisan who designed and created the ring. The backward ‘R,’ with a box around it.”

  Goodman thought he saw it. “Recognize the signature?” he asked.

  “Two people use it. Emilio Rodriguez of Taxco, and his son Emilio, Junior, who lives in Santa Barbara. This, I’m fairly certain, is the boy’s work. His father wouldn’t use platinum. And the setting was just a bit careless.”

  “You handle their stuff?”

  Alphonse shook his head and smiled. “Thanks for the thought. Emilio sells only from the family shop in Taxco. The boy’s work is much too upscale for my customers.”

  “Then where...?”

  Alphonse studied the ring and said, “Platinum and gold. Probably Halyard’s.”

  “In Beverly Hills, right?”

  “There’s a Halyard’s in Orange County, too. At Fashion Square. But I’d try Beverly Hills first. You guys wouldn’t be working the Gray murder? Is that what this is about?”

  Goodman gave him a noncommittal smile and returned the ring to its plastic baggie carrying case.

  Alphonse led them back through the store, where his wife was waiting patiently for a young man wearing black trousers, a white shirt, and a yarmulke to make up his mind about a signet ring. Alphonse’s wife was half his age, a big, blond Israeli woman who disliked Goodman and made no pretense about it.

  That was the way it was. The guys you put away—in Alphonse’s case, for armed bank robbery—might forgive you, but the wives never did.

/>   Leland Petit, the manager of Halyard & Company of Beverly Hills, had taken the day off. His assistant was an arrogant woman of middle age whose angular body made her look vaguely awkward even in an obviously expensive designer dress. With a brusque Teutonic accent and manners to match, she assured them Petit would be at the store in the morning.

  “We can’t wait,” Morales told her. “Why don’t you just take a look—”

  “I know nothing about this,” she interrupted. “This is a matter for Mr. Petit.”

  “Tell us where he is and we’ll find him,” Goodman said.

  “That I cannot do,” she said and started to walk away.

  “Hold on, lady,” Morales said. She stopped, frowning in annoyance. “We talkin’ murder,” the detective continued. “We gotta speak to Petit right now.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Nothin’s impossible in a murder investigation,” Morales insisted.

  “Fine. Then you go to the island of Catalina and look for him. He’s there with a friend hunting wild boar. Where specifically, I have no idea. No telephone. No beeper. Just the two men and two guns. If you find him, be sure to wear a sign, so he will not mistake you for a boar.” With that, she left them.

  “A real ball buster,” Morales grumbled as they exited the store.

  Goodman, though his opinion of the woman had improved a little with the boar comment, was forced to admit his partner had a point. “We’d better bring a warrant tomorrow,” he said. “Just in case.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  That’s a big hunk o’ dog meat you got there,” Virgil said, eyeing Bird with caution. The animal had insisted on answering the door with Nikki. Now he positioned himself between his mistress and the tall stranger.

  “If we shake hands,” Nikki said, “he’ll relax a little.”

  She reached across the dog. Virgil took her hand and kissed it.

  The animal did not relax.

  “Bouviers are very possessive,” she said.

  “No shit. He’s barin’ his teeth.”

  “Don’t worry. Bird’s a sweetheart.” She ran her hand through the dog’s curly hair. “How’s about a drink?”

  Bird let out a low, rumbling growl.

  “Might as well head on out,” Virgil said. “Reservation’s for eight-thirty.”

  “Okay. Give me a minute.”

  She left them and walked swiftly to the bedroom, pausing only to pick up her ratty Bugs Bunny slippers from the kitchen floor. When she’d told Loreen about the date, her friend had urged her to hide the slippers. “They look like rabbits with the mange,” Loreen had said. “Turn a man off faster than a cold shower. I swear, I ever get caught in an alley with a ugly crack-head rapist, I pray to God I’m wearing your Bugs Bunny slippers.”

  Nikki carried the fuzzy footwear to the bedroom and was about to toss them into the closet when she stopped herself. The room was a mess, as usual. She’d considered straightening it up, then decided it would be one more reason not to let this first date turn into a one-night stand.

  Just to make sure she’d be sleeping alone, she placed the slippers on the bed and shined her reading lamp directly on them.

  Satisfied, she rushed to the bathroom, filled her handbag with breath spray, comb, makeup, and other essentials. She returned to find Bird and Virgil glaring at one another.

  “You just move in here?” Virgil asked.

  “Umm,” she said. “Haven’t had a chance to go furniture shopping.”

  “It’s a big place,” he said. “Great location.” Then he yelled “Aiee,” because he had just felt a dog’s nose poke between his legs.

  Nikki couldn’t help laughing. “He’s just sizing you up,” she said, grabbing the dog’s collar and pulling him away from the detective.

  “Oh?” Virgil grinned. “How do I fare?”

  Nikki bent down and put her ear to Bird’s mouth. “He says you’re about average.”

  “The dog lies,” he said, ushering her to the door.

  The drive to the restaurant began on an up note, with Virgil amusingly describing his past misadventures with dogs, cats, and other household pets. He was in the middle of a story about a beautiful voodoo priestess and her snake when Nikki realized his attention was drifting from the freeway to the rearview mirror. She turned and saw nothing but headlights. “Something back there?” she asked.

  “Car coming up fast,” he said. “Satchel Paige may have been one hell of a ballplayer but he wasn’t much at givin’ advice. Somebody’s gainin’ on you, that’s exactly when you wanna be...Damn!”

  She turned her head just as a flat-gray Chevy roared past, missing their car by inches. Nikki thought she saw a young boy grinning at them.

  Virgil’s face hardened and he pressed down on the gas, taking off after the sedan.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked in alarm as he shifted lanes so abruptly he nearly cut off a little sports car.

  “Punk tried to shake my tree, baby. Now I’m gonna shake his.”

  The Chevy was pulling away. Nikki saw that its license plate was covered with mud or paint. Virgil pushed the T-Bird, weaving in and out of the freeway traffic, causing other cars to swerve perilously.

  “Stop this,” Nikki said. “Some little boy disses you, you’re gonna risk a smashup?”

  He didn’t seem to have heard her. Too intent on closing the gap.

  He was within a car length of the Chevy when the driver’s window rolled down and a beer bottle flew out and exploded against the T-Bird’s windshield.

  Ducking instinctively, Virgil yelled, “Bastards,” as he steadied the wheel, managing to avoid a collision with a truck that Nikki had thought inevitable.

  “That’s enough, damn it!” Nikki shouted.

  The Chevy suddenly cut across two lanes of traffic and left the freeway at Culver City. Virgil followed their lead, apparently mindless of the other vehicles, prompting a chorus of horns and yells and the screech of brakes.

  The chase continued down the less crowded Washington Boulevard at a speed approaching ninety mph. Nikki glared at Virgil, a man obviously too obsessed to consider the threat he was posing. She had just about made up her mind to reach over and turn off the ignition key when they heard the siren.

  A blue-and-white, bubble blazing red, roared up behind them, cutting them off, forcing the T-Bird to the curb.

  In seconds, two uniformed policemen, both white, were out of the prowl car, guns drawn and flanking their vehicle. “Hands on the dash,” the one near Virgil ordered.

  Nikki placed her hands in front of her. Through the splintered windshield, she saw the Chevy disappearing into the distance.

  “On the dash, now,” the cop shouted at Virgil, who finally complied. Nikki could feel the fury and frustration coming off of him like a blast of energy.

  Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’m a plainclothes officer with the LAPD. My ID is in the top pocket of my shirt. I—”

  “Just cool your jets,” the cop from Culver City said. He opened Virgil’s door and, keeping his gun aimed, reached in and fumbled the brown leather folder from the detective’s pocket.

  With some reluctance, he holstered his pistol and placed the ID and badge on the dash between Virgil’s vibrating hands. “He’s a lawman,” the cop told his partner.

  “Then he oughta know better’n to be flying down Washington like that,” the partner said.

  “I was in pursuit of a vehicle,” Virgil told them, enunciating slowly.

  “I didn’t see no vehicle ’cept yours, brother. And you was traveling at eighty-plus. Dumb fucking thing to do along a boulevard where there are kids and old folks. I oughta run you in anyway, but we’ll write this off to professional courtesy.”

  “That’s mighty white of you, officer,” Virgil said.

  The cop glared at him. “You got that right,” he said. “You better replace your windshield. It’s against the law, driving with it in that condition. The next officers you meet may not be as white as us.” He an
d his partner sauntered back to their bubble car.

  Virgil turned to Nikki and said sheepishly, “I handled that pretty well, huh?”

  She shook her head sadly.

  “I’m sorry. It’s stupid to let my temper get the upper hand.”

  “Those officers were right. You coulda killed somebody. Us included.”

  “I know,” he said. “I had no right taking chances with your life. It won’t happen again, Nikki, I promise.”

  “Maybe you’d better just take me home.”

  “Please don’t say that. I know I just put you through a bad time, but let me try and make up for that.”

  What in the world’s going on in my head? she wondered. Why am I cutting this lunatic so much slack? Do I really want to know the answer to that question?

  “Okay. Dinner,” she said. “Can you drive with the windshield messed up like that?”

  “Sure.” He took his gun from its holster and knocked out the pieces of broken glass until he had a clear view. “My insurance company’s gonna jus’ luuuv me,” he said.

  The restaurant he selected was a new place on La Cienega Boulevard called the Other LA. It reminded Nikki of an upscale roadside tavern in some 1950s movie—wooden floor, heavy dark tables and chairs, and padded leaf-green leather booths with brass studs. The difference was that moss was hanging from the rafters and a huge oak tree seemed to have sprouted up in the center of the room, its leafy top extending toward an open skylight.

  Once they were ensconced in their booth, Virgil seemed to relax, but she noticed he’d positioned himself in the corner where the leather met the wall, the better to get a 180degree view of the room and its inhabitants. Great. Reckless and paranoid.

  Their drinks arrived at their table with astonishing speed, carried by a handsome, very light colored man whom Virgil greeted enthusiastically, asking him to join them. The man’s name was Desmond St. Jean and he and his brother, Phillipe, both Creoles from Louisiana, were the owners. He was charming and flirtatious, assuring Nikki she was much more beautiful than her picture in the paper. He suggested that they let him create the menu for them.